


Crossing Swords

by nerddowell



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: (i mean probably), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Terrible Sex Puns, also he fences because KNIGHTS, porn to come (heh), seriously the chevalier is a liability, so totally in character, the chevalier is kind of an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-03 21:04:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10975302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: Philippe goes to university across the Channel, just to piss Louis off that little bit more. Between being snowed under with his uni work, long phone arguments with his brother, and extracurriculars, he manages to meet a fencer with a wicked grin and a wickeder glint in his eye.





	1. The New Student

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, Versailles fanfic writers, I know you're out there. This fandom needs more Monchevy and I am here to fill the gap, but I can't do it on my own! I need more to read and get inspired by!

‘This train is for Margate, stopping at Canterbury West, Ramsgate, Broadstairs and Margate. We’d like to thank you for travelling with Southeastern Railways today. Next stop, Canterbury West.’

Seeing the scrolling message on the screens above the carriage aisle, Philippe sighed heavily and removed his headphones to around his neck, leaving Cyndi Lauper blasting at full volume. A pointed cough from behind him made him turn around and offer a sarcastic smile before turning it off. His stomach was full of butterflies; starting university, especially overseas (if only across the Channel) was bound to make anyone nervous. Anyone but Louis, of course; his perfect brother was never nervous, and tackled every adversity head-on and with enthusiasm. Philippe couldn’t wait to get away from him.

Nor could he wait to get off this train. The carriage was old, rattling heavily over the tracks, and with a strange, dismal sort of smell he would later come to associate with English trains, a mixture of cigarette smoke, sweat and oil from the wheels. The seats were barely cushioned at all, very much not what he was used to in the first class carriages in France, where every ticket collector and food bar staff knew him by sight and were all but falling over themselves to offer every amenity available to their distinguished customer. Here, he was sat at the one table remaining, opposite a drunk who had travelled across from him all the way from London and kept calling him ‘love’ whilst begging for tobacco and papers. He pulled a book out of his bag, intending to ignore the man further, when the train’s disembodied voice announced their imminent arrival into Canterbury West station and he gratefully sprang up from his seat, collecting his bag and chain of five suitcases ready to disembark.

The drunk goggled blearily at him before announcing, in a voice that could bring down a hurricane, ‘A know you! Yer the King’s brother, ain’t yer?’

‘No,’ he said coldly, with a calculated lack of accent, and jabbed furiously at the button to open the train doors.

‘You are! Yer the King of France’s brother – the faggy one!’ The man lurched to his feet, eyes flashing, and Philippe was suddenly aware of how flimsy a barrier the row of suitcases between them truly was.

‘This conversation is over,’ he said, as icily as he could manage, and jabbed again at the button, sending a silent prayer of relief skywards as the doors groaned open and he quickly stepped out onto the platform, heaving his multitude of bags behind him. The doors began to close and he had turned away towards the lifts when he heard the rough, rasping voice again:

‘Faggot!’

Philippe sighed, and tried to ignore him. He’d heard worse, and from people he cared significantly more about, yet he was still shaking. Wriggling his phone out of his pocket, he opened Safari to search for a taxi before taking the subway under the tracks to the exit.

* * *

The fight had lasted hours, the culmination of weeks of Philippe’s ‘disobedience’ and ‘unruliness’.

Louis had been furious, throwing the newspapers down on the bedsheets beside him, cold blue eyes blazing. _A disgrace_ , he had yelled, _you are disgracing our name and you are disgracing me!_

Phillipe had stared blankly at him, shrugging, and turned the page disinterestedly, pretending to be more interested in the report on the Ebola threat reaching France than the lurid spread of him, flushed and sloppy with drink, wrapped around the Italian consul Mazarin’s nephew in a notorious Parisian gay bar. He hadn’t been surprised that the press had found out, and worse, had photographed it; only that Louis, in his supposed concern for the Bourbon name, hadn’t paid off the reporters and quashed it from the news. But of course he hadn’t. Anything that weakened Philippe in the public eye made Louis stronger, or so his mother and father had believed, and so had brought them both up believing. Louis was the King, the only thing that had mattered, and Philippe had been relegated to second place, forgotten in the shadows. And yet he still could not do as he wished. Sometimes, it seemed like Louis had to approve his every action, even the words before they came out of his mouth. He yearned to be unshackled from that yoke, to stretch his legs and go free, away from the stifling attitudes of the Parisian palace. Away from Louis.

And so his enrolment in university in England – not even a top ten university, barely top 50, to Louis’ chagrin – had been masterminded. Art History and Literature, where he could follow his interests and allow himself the pleasures in life previously denied him. It would be glorious.

Louis would not hear of it. He had cancelled Philippe’s first airline ticket, threatening to unenroll him from the university unless he promised to clean up his behaviour; no more public dalliances, no more embarrassments for the House of Bourbon, and no more disappointments. Philippe, who had been an embarrassment and a disappointment for Louis his entire life, agreed without the slightest pang of conscience at the lie.

* * *

His new student lodgings, the student guide informed him excitedly, were an exact mirror image of the ones on the other side of the law hall. Both buildings were the work of an architect who had previously mostly worked on prison blocks. Looking around his bedroom – roughly the size of the broom closet Louis had once shut him in as a child after Philippe broke one of his toys – he could well believe it. It was spartan to the extreme, painted white, with puke-coloured curtains, a rickety desk, a minuscule wardrobe shorter than Philippe himself, and a bed that looked like it had been taken from one of the architect’s previous prisons. Thankfully, at least the mattress was clean.

With a heavy sigh, he threw his bags down on the bed, which creaked ominously, and sat down at the desk. His window looked out onto a poky, paved courtyard with a patch of scrubby soil and a pathetic and half-dead yew tree encircled by brown-painted benches. It was certainly a far cry from his bedroom in Paris with its luxurious furnishings and servants waiting to attend his every whim, and its windows that opened onto the rose beds and gardens beyond. Perhaps that was why he loved it so much. No Louis, no Bontemps, no Marchal, none of the irritatingly dense clutter of persons among whom he had felt so strangled. Instead it was Philippe’s first true place of his own, an island of solitude, a –

A loud banging and chattering on the stairs disturbed him from his thoughts, and he ventured onto the landing to see his fellow flatmates had already moved in and were congregating in the stairwell to gawk at him, the newcomer. None particularly piqued his interest of the three he saw there; one was a mixed-race computer scientist who admittedly looked almost temptingly athletic, and the other two were girls of the sort who applied makeup with trowels and pouted stupidly into their iPhone cameras every thirty seconds. He had suffered the company of that sort for years in the Lycée when Louis and his sycophantic ‘friends’ constantly tried to pass off their seconds to him, or else set him up with the most irritating girls in the school seemingly purely for their own amusement.

Philippe closed his door sharply, turning the lock – intensely private as he was, he greatly preferred having his door shut and locked – before setting to the task of putting away what he now realised was a truly ridiculous amount of stuff for the size of the shoebox he was to occupy. His clothes had to be hung four or five to each hanger to fit inside the wardrobe, surely wrinkling his favourite crushed velvet dress, and the one dubious-looking shelf the room had been equipped with only had room for two of his art history textbooks and a couple of volumes of _A Song of Ice and Fire_. Thankfully he could at least set up his docking station, which he proceeded to do before letting Bonnie Tyler blare from the speakers as he lay on his bare mattress and stared aimlessly out of the window.

His flatmates insisted on a ‘getting to know you’ round of drinks in the kitchen, which was probably smaller even than Philippe’s bedroom and contained only a single fridge and a microwave between the eight of them. Philippe reluctantly attended, being passed a Asda’s own brand-vodka and coke made half and half, and was immediately bestowed the nickname ‘Phil’ by the girl on his left who turned out to be named Sophie, and whom by the end of the night had to be carried, comatose, to her bed by her giggling friend.

His first lecture the next morning was at 9am, when it felt like the sun had barely even risen and his head was thumping and stomach roiling at the amount of paint-stripper ‘vodka’ he had imbibed last night. He supposed it served him right, really, drinking before the first day of lessons (again, had he learned nothing from the Lycée?) and yet that did little for how miserable he felt. Resigning himself to a difficult morning, he opened his pad and prepared to at least try to make notes.

The lecturer was a middle-aged woman, sharp-faced, who seemed to zero in on him in the first moment, and directed every question she asked straight towards his row of the lecture theatre. He tried valiantly to answer a few, remembering fuzzily English literature lessons at the Lycée, but she didn’t seem impressed. If anything, her expression was the same as his father’s had always been when shifting his gaze from Louis to Philippe; as though she had been expecting something greater, and he had fallen short. _Welcome to the family_ , he thought sourly, and gave up entirely on trying to pay attention.

* * *

Philippe later found out that four of his housemates were engaged in various forms of extra-curricular activity, from the blogging society (Sophie and Maëlys, the two girls he had seen in the stairwell when he arrived) to rugby, even to the Hogwarts Society. He didn’t find any of those options particularly appealing – especially the social suicide of the Hogwarts and Quidditch societies, should Louis find out back home – and so decided to look for something else. He ended up paying memberships for the Current Affairs and Politics society (to please Louis, who constantly chastised him for not taking enough interest in the day-to-day running of France), Costume for Stage and Screen society, and the French society (he felt he had to). He thought hard about joining the shooting society, but hadn’t brought any of his own guns and was rusty from lack of practise, and God knows he was too proud to try and then make a fool of himself in front of others. Especially others who would expect an innate skill, such as that of a Bourbon prince.

Passing by the gym, he saw several people among whom he thought he recognised members of his course, dressed in white and carrying oblong bags with round ends. Thinking perhaps this was the tennis and badminton society he’d seen on the Union website, he approached them to say hello, but they disappeared through the double doors and the turnstiles before he got the chance. Biting the bullet, he followed them through, and round through a labyrinth of corridors into a large hall, where tennis nets were just beginning to be packed away and lots of people dressed in the same white breeches-sort of things were sat patiently on benches around the edges of the court, chattering animatedly. He awkwardly sat down beside a girl with long brown hair and attempted another hello.

‘Hi!’ she said enthusiastically, cheeks splitting into a wide smile. ‘Are you here for the fencing society? I’m Nina, the captain of the women’s team, but if you go speak to Philippe over there, he’s the social sec taking over secretary for the moment, so he can get you signed up.’ She said all of this so fast that Philippe barely had chance to register the words ‘fencing society’ before the man she’d gestured to swaggered over and leaned over her shoulder.

‘Fresh meat,’ he grinned, leonine, and looked Philippe up and down. His hair, wildly curly and so blond it looked golden, was messily tied back in a bun at the nape of his neck, and he was dressed in what Philippe now recognised as fencing gear, with his white jacket, breeches, and knee-high socks, right hand gloved and holding an impressive fencing sabre. Everything clung to him, all lean, strong muscles on display, and his blue eyes were dancing with mischief. He winked as he saw Philippe staring, and the Prince remembered to unknot his tongue and get it off the floor before answering.

‘I, uh, I was actually looking for the tennis society.’

‘Shame. They take the session before ours, which is great when we arrive early because then we can watch how boring their society meets are to improve our own.’ He looked down at Nina, clucked quietly, and brushed a dot of fluff off her shoulder. ‘Of course, if you’d like to cross swords with someone every so often, we’re the perfect society for that. Better than batting a ball around over a net for an interminable length of time.’

‘It’s a racquet in tennis. Not a bat.’

‘Bat, racquet, what does it matter. Terrible bore.’ He yawned theatrically. ‘Anyway, join us. We’re better, wear more fabulous costumes, and get to stab each other with pointy things for fun. It’s like being a medieval knight but without the brutal injuries. Or the armour, although I keep asking the historical re-enactment society to lend us some for fundraisers so that we can properly go at it.’

Nina noticed Philippe’s blush at the words ‘go at it’ and started giggling; the other Philippe waggled his eyebrows and laughed, throwing his blond head back.

‘I like you, newbie. Gosh, such a lovely little thing.’

‘I’m not a ‘little thing’,’ Philippe snapped, finally clearing his head of the instantaneous cloud of lust that the other man had filled it with; ‘I’m not here for fencing, and I’m – I’m going to go.’

‘No, stay,’ other Philippe said suddenly, his voice soft and imploring with his eyes matching, grabbing Phillipe’s arm. His gaze was penetrating yet gentle, eager to please, and Philippe sighed internally before nodding slowly, terrified of what he was getting himself into.


	2. 'Mignonette'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philippe is just settling in to university life when appears our lovely Other Philippe (the Chevalier-to-be) to promptly flip his world upside down again.
> 
> Poor thing.

What Philippe had let himself in for by staying for the fencing society’s taster session, it turned out, was legs so sore from footwork – essentially two hours of constant semi-squatting and lunges – that he could barely swing them out of bed the next morning without wanting to sob in agony. Cursing ‘Other Philippe’ (he needed to come up with a better nickname) and his stupidly handsome, winsome face to hell, he managed to haul himself upright and head for the shower. Finding it was occupied and hearing Maëlys’ off-key rendition of _I Kissed A Girl_ , he realised it wouldn’t be free for at least the next forty five minutes and stomped morosely along the corridor to try the other one, belonging to Sophie and the computer scientist whose name he had learned, and subsequently forgotten, last night. This bathroom was unlocked, absent of any caterwauling girls, and relatively clean, so he took as brief a shower as he could bear before wrapping towels around his hair and waist and crossing back to his bedroom. Sophie, on her way out of her room, started giggling and gave him a wolf whistle, to which he responded with a cold glare and slammed his bedroom door behind him. One night in his student accommodation and he was already being forcibly reminded of the idiots he went to high school with. He sighed, banged his head against his mirror, and pulled a shirt out of the wardrobe.

His thighs were burning. Other Philippe had led the warmups last night, which had had Philippe soaked in sweat within twenty minutes as they ran around the hall doing various actions whenever Other Philippe shouted a number. The stretches had been the worst, however. He’d not been so sore in years, not since he’d quit his ballet lessons in an argument with his dance master over being too old to wear the tutu and leotard any longer. Other Philippe made it look easy to casually drop into a split, or spread his thighs wider than most Olympic gymnasts could before pressing his chest to the ground and reaching out his arms. Philippe, who could just about touch his toes properly on a good day, had been impressed and a little terrified, especially when Other Philippe winked and flashed him another seductive, leonine smile in between forcing his knees further apart ‘to help stretch your hamstrings’.

He had felt thoroughly stretched all over, including the front of his shorts, by the end of the warmup, although thinking of Louis with that _hideous_ middle-aged prostitute when he was sixteen had more than sorted that problem. (It had probably mentally scarred him for life, in fact.)

The fencing had at least been enjoyable. He and Louis had had lessons as boys, until their mother decided that Louis had the more talent and that Philippe’s time would be better spent learning to dance (he could still go _en pointe_ in the _relevé_ position, even barefoot, if he concentrated hard and warmed up enough) and play piano. Still, he found that it came back to him pretty easily, and as such had established himself among the better novices in the class. This was something that had not escaped Other Philippe’s attention, and Philippe spent the rest of the lesson and the warm-down smiling to himself.

His first lecture today was in the main Humanities building, just past the library, which was, at least, only a short walk from his dormitory. The weather, for England, was relatively nice – cold, as it was just starting to roll over into October and the trees were beginning to look decidedly spindly as their leaves dropped – and the fresh air was a relief after the stuffy claustrophobia of his dorm room. (He had been amazed to find out that his room, broom closet as it was, technically qualified for one of his college’s ‘large’ rooms.) Kicking a crushed Red Bull can out of his way as he turned around the corner of the library quad, he considered joining the dance society to practice his ballet again, but decided against it. He had always hated lessons with others, who would hold back the progression by taking ages to perfect a movement, or distract the teacher. His dance lessons as a boy were one of the few things of his childhood that had truly belonged to _him_ and not to Louis.

Thankfully the lecturer today was not the witch from last time, but a handsome German with a thick accent and a penchant for boxy Buddy Holly glasses and grandpa sweaters. It was a shame, Philippe mused, that the wool was such a thick knit; his lecturer was slim and had shapely legs (and a spectacular ass) under those chinos, so unless he had some hideous deformity on his upper half he could certainly get away with a tighter-fitting jumper and make the lectures more interesting. It seemed several of the girls around him agreed, all of them whispering behind their notepads about how attractive Niklas was, and Philippe rolled his eyes. Bubble burst.

Instead of paying attention, however, even with the welcome sight of Niklas’ peachlike backside in front of him, Philippe spent most of the lecture staring out of the glass panel in the door, watching students from other lectures and seminars flow through the building. A loud bubble of chatter descending the stairs from the upper floor caught his interest, and as the owners of the voices turned the corner he spotted among them a wildly curly blond topknot he recognised. Other Philippe looked away from his friend, still laughing, just long enough to catch Philippe’s eye before passing through the main doors, and Philippe ducked his head, aware of the painfully bright blush on his cheeks.

He was starting to think he’d become an accidental stalker.

Niklas and the _Canterbury Tales_ were suddenly fascinating, and Philippe stared hard at the projector screen, seeing but not taking anything in. Niklas’ voice was a soft murmur in his ears behind the confused thumping of his heart and the overwhelming fear that he’d already started the landslide into another furious fight with Louis over his ‘behaviour’. Determining to nip things in the bud, when Niklas let them all go, Philippe bolted up from his seat and out of the lecture hall towards the library. Peace and quiet was exactly what he needed.

* * *

Predictably, every copy of the Canterbury Tales without a thousand pen scribbles in the margins of the pages had been taken out, so he had to settle for a Penguin Classics copy that positively _moulted_ pages. Shoving it into his bag, which could barely contain a packet of Tic-Tacs let alone a 1300-page book, he searched the entire study area in vain for a spare seat before resigning himself to the social study area one floor down. There was a table free beside the café with a mounted socket for his laptop, so he plonked himself down in the comfiest-looking seat and spread his things over the table to make sure nobody else tried to sit down with him. The story they would be analysing in Thursday’s seminar was _The Wife of Bath_ , so he leafed through the book to the right page and tapped away at his laptop, frowning and cursing Middle English. Modern English was difficult enough if it wasn’t your first language, and Shakespeare was pushing it sometimes, but ‘And yaf hym to the queene, al at hir wille, to chese wheither she wolde hym save or spille’ was near unintelligible. And it _rhymed_.

Eventually he managed to find an interlinear translation between Middle and modern English, which vastly improved his comprehension, and he sat for around an hour making notes on his laptop and referencing the lecture slides before a rowdy group of other students came and congregated themselves around the table next to his, dragging his concentration away.

‘I’m so sick of Dr Lester,’ one of them moaned, ‘applied statistical modelling is hard enough without having a lecturer who just reads off the slides in that drone of his before choosing the longest and most difficult example to wade through for the half an hour he always goes overtime.’

‘I think it serves you right,’ a familiar voice laughed, ‘for choosing something as horribly tedious as accounting and finance anyway.’

‘Come and tell me that when you’re poor and unemployed as a Classics student then, _Lorraine_.’

‘I won’t be poor and unemployed, I’ll be a kept man for some heinously wealthy old dear who gets parties and presents in return for a quick fondle between the dry old crevice every month or so,’ Other Philippe – Lorraine – retorted, smirking, and his friends responded with varying degrees of disgust and horror amidst their laughter. Philippe felt a fluttering in his stomach, his heart sinking. If he’d ever thought Louis might approve of Lorraine (and, let’s be realistic, he never would), he certainly wouldn’t now. Louis had a nose like a bloodhound for gold-diggers and hangers-on, and here was Philippe on the edge of falling hook, line and sinker for one.

He started to pack his things away, not caring how his hands were shaking and the desperation on his face must be showing. He had to get out before Lorraine noticed him.

He should be so lucky.

Barely had he wrestled his laptop into its wallet when a bright, glittery silver bag was dumped on top of his textbooks and a beaming smile under a mop of curly blond hair was directed his way.

‘So, sweet little thing, we meet again. Perhaps I should give you a nickname? Something French, the language of love and beauty. _Mon petit canard_ , perhaps, for the tuft at the back of your hair.’ (Philippe anxiously tried to smooth it, cheeks flaring, and glowered at him.) ‘Gracious, what fury. _Mon petit tigre_ then, perhaps. So fierce.’

‘I’m not a child to be given pet names and patronised. I barely even know you, and certainly wouldn’t condescend to answer to any such names given to me,’ he snapped, shoving the stupid shiny bag off his books and slamming them closed.

‘You _are_ fierce, aren’t you?’ Lorraine grinned. ‘Forgive me. Something kinder then. _Mignonette_ , I think.’

Philippe glared at him.

‘Oh, come on. Is a man not allowed to be affectionate to a friend?’

‘You call all your friends _mignonette_ , do you?’ he scoffed, shoving the other boy out of the way to reach for his books. Lorraine grabbed them and held them at arm’s length, shooting him a cocky smile.

‘Only the cute ones.’

‘I’ve had enough of being mocked!’ Philippe shouted, making a swipe for his books. ‘Give those back to me immediately, or I’ll report you all for disruption to the library monitors.’

‘We’re quaking in our boots!’ one of Lorraine’s group from the other table laughed, elbowing the rest of them, and they made cat-calls and jeers, which only inflamed Philippe’s temper further. This is exactly what Louis did – pushed and prodded and teased until he snapped and retaliated, at which point the full fury of the King would come down on him like a tonne of bricks. He had put up with it for twenty years in Paris; not so any more. Here he was his own man and could do as he wished, and so he picked up the _Canterbury Tales_ and hit Lorraine with it, hard, right on the cheekbone with a satisfying _thud!_

‘I _said_ ,’ he panted, ‘give them back. And _don’t_ call me _mignonette_.’

Lorraine, with a red welt rising on his cheek, blinked away the traces of wateriness in his eyes and schooled his face back into his ever-present smirk before handing the books back.  
‘As your royal highness commands.’

Philippe stopped short. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, you didn’t think I wouldn’t recognise a member of the royal family when I see one?’ Lorraine shook his head fondly, still smirking. ‘Dear me, mignonette. Your disguise of a poor student might work on most, but a Frenchman would recognise you anywhere. What on earth possessed you to come here instead of Cambridge, Oxford, St. Andrews – the usual haunts of the studiously-minded royal brat? I’m sure the King could fund studies anywhere in the world, and yet here you are.’

‘ _Don’t_ ,’ snarled Philippe, ‘ _talk about my brother_.’

‘Mignonette,’ Lorraine acknowledged with a gracious bow, and followed his friends out of the library with a quick glance back, leonine smile in place, in a whirl of golden curls.

* * *

Philippe had to confess himself rattled by the encounter with Lorraine in the library. As much as he hated to admit the other was right, his face was distinctive to anyone who had spent time on French soil, or watching their national news. Philippe, younger brother to the sainted King Louis, the pale satellite to his brother’s gleaming golden sun. He wanted to vomit. Of course Lorraine knew who he was. Worse, this explained the flirtatiousness; he’d clearly fixed Philippe in his sights to be the – what had he called it? – heinously wealthy old dear whom he’d fuck and swindle for all of their money. Philippe felt sick to his stomach. Louis could never find out; he’d laugh himself sick at his poor, soft-hearted, soft-headed brother who falls so easily in love with the most unsuitable people. _Idiot_ , he cursed himself, _tu es fou, idiot!_

He walked back to his dormitory miserably, dragging his feet. Lorraine was right, Louis was right. He had no place here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _tu es fous idiot!_ : in my high school level french, that means _you fucking idiot!_. however, it is high school level, and i didn't pay much attention in french, so if i got it wrong, please do correct me!
> 
> My university fencing class warm-ups really were brutal. If you weren't red-faced, panting, sweaty as hell and in dire need of a drink, they hadn't done it properly. And I stole the stretches part from kickboxing, although now I've probably given the fencing lot ideas so... yeah, sorry for that, future fencers.
> 
> I'm so glad I don't have to keep track of 'Philippe' and 'Other Philippe' in my work any more.


	3. Un Chevalier dans L'armure Étincelante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit I've had this written for a couple of days, just haven't posted it yet. So there might be another update today or within the next couple of days because I'm kind of on a roll with this.

By the third week of term, Philippe had honestly started to believe that he and Lorraine had, by some sort of subconscious telepathic agreement, begun to stalk each other around campus. He could barely leave a single lecture hall without hearing somewhere in earshot that brazen, mischievous laughter and seeing glimpses of blond curls turning corners or leaning over friends’ shoulders. He found himself almost missing Louis’ valet-cum-bodyguard Bontemps, who would certainly have been able to put a stop to the unnerving constancy of Lorraine’s proximity. But he was being ridiculous – paranoid. Lorraine could hardly be stalking someone he happened to share a campus with. It was probably just unfortunate timetabling that all _his_ lectures and social pursuits happened to be in the same buildings as Philippe’s.

He hadn’t been back to the fencing society since that first session either. Given that he was currently devoting the majority of his time to avoiding Lorraine when and wherever possible, voluntarily putting himself in the position to share space and time with the pestilential creature for two whole hours three times a week was a major contradiction. Instead he spent his time in the library, trying to study and failing as his thoughts kept wandering back to the mass of curly blond hair and irritatingly charming _charmingness_ he was taking such pains to forget.

Climbing the stairs past the refectory hall (he was convinced that not only was the college built by a prison architect, that they had employed prison chefs as well from the quality – or lack thereof – of the food) to the café, painted an ugly and eyewatering shade of orange, he noticed signs advertising the university’s pole fitness society sessions with directing arrows. His rucksack full of textbooks was weighing heavily on his shoulders and his stomach was rumbling loudly from hunger, but his face split into a grin at the thought of Louis’ reaction to finding out his brother took _pole dancing_ classes, and he resolved immediately to go and check them out. They were being held in a seminar room he thought he was familiar with, so he shouldered his bag and wandered around the college’s labyrinthine corridors, following the arrows, until he came to a set of double doors at the top of the stairs where he could see several poles had been set up with circular cushions around the bases.

There was a gaggle of girls in sports halter tops and skintight shorts waiting on the stairs for their session, who giggled and whispered behind their hands at the sight of him, in his thick knit jumper and stylish Chelsea boots totally unfit for pole class, peering in through the panes of the door to catch a glimpse of the society in progress. One of them even asked if he was here for the beginner’s session, at which point he shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage and said, ‘Why not?’

‘It’s just, you have to book a space, and then it’s first come, first served.’

He nodded. ‘Ah.’ He would have to wait until next week to become a pole dancing master and scandalise his brother. Philippe watched a heavyset girl inside the classroom swing herself upside down and into a horizontal split on one of the poles and thought of his delicious Mazarin, elfin and lovely, in the same position, lithe muscles rippling with effort. He could certainly understand the appeal of strip bars much more now, not that he would ever be caught dead in one personally. The press would tear him to shreds. Much better to install a pole in the Parisian château’s ballroom so that he could put on impromptu shows for all of Louis’ most important guests. Imagining the reaction of the more uptight members of court, such as the governors Louvois and Colbert and their apoplectic expressions, he had to stifle his own laughter behind his hand, biting his lip.

‘You can always message them on the Facebook page and ask if there’s any places free. Beginner sessions tend to be busy, though, so you might have to wait for the second class tonight.’

‘I don’t have Facebook,’ Philippe muttered, well aware how ridiculous it sounded in this day and age. ‘Not of my own, anyway.’

‘You don’t have a _Facebook account_?’ one of the girls asked, her eyes like saucers, as though he’d just told her he didn’t have a head and was secretly a thousand-year-old alien from the planet Xermatron.

Her friend beside her rolled her eyes. ‘What’s your name? I can always message them for you and sign you up.’

‘Thank you.’ He gave her his name (omitting the titles and honorifics that still, embarrassingly, appeared on his university transcript), and she sent off the message with a string of emojis attached.

‘So are you, like, famous? Is that why you don’t have a proper Facebook?’ the first girl asked, and Philippe sighed internally before fixing her with his sarcastic courtier’s smile.

‘I’m nobody of consequence, in all honesty,’ he told her, ‘I just don’t see the need to have yet another social media feed trying to inform me what all of my ‘friends’ had for breakfast and receive inane messages about virtual cows needing extra hay.’ He’d heard that that particular game was all the rage during his years at the Lycée, along with something created by Kim Kardashian that he didn’t even want to know the name of, let alone spend hours playing.

The girls sniffed, seemingly offended, and turned their backs on him, whispering sulkily to each other. He shrugged. He couldn’t have cared less.

A couple of minutes later, the classroom doors were flung open with a bang and the voice Philippe had been avoiding all day announced ‘Welcome, lovelies and newcomers, to the university pole dancing classes, where you will all become vixens and sirens for the new age!’

 _Lorraine_.

Philippe looked up and felt his jaw drop to the floor. Lorraine was dressed in the tightest shorts he had ever seen (including the unfortunate time he had witnessed Louvois in his cycling spandex) with a tank top marked UKC Pole Fitness hugging every inch of his muscular chest. His curls were tied back except for a few which had sprung free to frame his handsome face, and it took less than a second for Philippe to resign himself to Lorraine’s presence, because apparently, he couldn’t even escape him here. That said, pole dancing did seem like it would be entirely up Lorraine’s alley – twisting his already beautiful body into marvellous shapes, moving like liquid to sensuous music. Philippe coughed, feeling his cheeks flush with heat, and Lorraine’s sparkling blue eyes zeroed in on him immediately like crosshairs on a deer.

‘Mignonette! Of all the places I didn’t expect to see you–’

‘If you breathe a word to anyone, my brother will have you murdered in your sleep if I don’t get there first,’ Philippe threatened, and Lorraine gave a mock shiver.

‘Oh, you are delicious.’ He smirked. ‘Come in, come in, darlings, don’t loiter in doorways like eavesdropping servants!’ Lorraine ushered them in and closed the door firmly behind them, cornering Philippe with a hand either side of his head.

‘You’ve been following me, mignonette.’

‘Me?’ Philippe barked in outrage, ‘ _You’re_ the one who’s been stalking _me_ all over campus! I can’t leave my dormitory once without seeing your ridiculous curly head hiding behind lampposts or popping out of bins!’ That was a slight exaggeration – he had yet to see Lorraine spring up from a trash can like an oversized blond mushroom – but he did seem to multiply, to sprout before Philippe’s incredulous eyes hundreds of versions of himself so that wherever Philippe looked, Lorraine would be.

‘I admit, I did have a tiny peek at your timetable in the library just the once,’ Lorraine grinned, ‘but I’d missed you so since that little disagreement we had, and, well, you are so lovely to look at–’

‘I can’t believe it,’ Philippe groaned, ‘you’re a stalker as well as a pervert. Lucky me.’

‘Though I resent the accusation of pervert, lucky you indeed, with the attentions of the frankly legendary Philippe de Lorraine fixed entirely upon yourself.’ Lorraine brushed a kiss across Philippe’s knuckles, who tried hard not to let it show how weak in the knees he had gone, Lorraine’s smooth voice and dazzling smile making his head spin. ‘I don’t bestow my affections upon just anyone, your Highness.’

That broke the spell, and Philippe shoved his way out of Lorraine’s arms, out through the doors, and back to the safety of his dormitory room.

* * *

  
A knock at his door the next evening, after a full day of lectures that had left him with a headache from trying to remember so much information all at once, made Philippe jump from where he was laid with a pillow over his head on his bed. The knock was followed by Lorraine flinging open the door and promptly throwing himself down on the bed beside him, removing the pillow to place it under his own head.

‘I distinctly remember locking that door,’ Philippe grumbled, rolling onto his side away from the other boy.

‘Did you, mignonette? I didn’t notice. It was open when I got here.’ Lorraine picked a speck of fluff off Philippe’s shoulder and leant up on one elbow. ‘You should come out with us tonight. We’re going to the club, there’ll be terrible music, drinks until we see triple, and dancing. I’m sure you’ll love it.’

‘I’m not going,’ Philippe told him, point blank, and Lorraine pouted.

‘Please, mignonette? I would so love it if you would come. My heart would burst with joy.’

‘Your heart will burst around my fist if you don’t leave me alone.’

‘Are you threatening me with a _fisting_ , mignonette?’

‘I have only some idea what kind of disgusting sexual practise that is and I have no desire to learn more, especially not with you, so I’m going to ignore that last question and reiterate: _leave me alone_.’

‘But it would be such fun,’ Lorraine wheedled, brushing Philippe’s hair away from his face with one hand. ‘And it’s part of the quintessential student experience. A date, a shitty club with shittier music, snogging on the dance floor and a quick and shameless fuck in the toilets.’

Philippe’s heartbeat stuttered. A _date_? ‘Sounds appealing. I’m not interested.’

‘Liar.’ Lorraine grinned, suddenly millimetres away from Philippe’s ear, so close he could feel the other boy’s breath ghosting the rim of his ear, and his eyes fluttered shut as he struggled to compose himself. Lorraine was trailing the tip of a finger up and down his neck, from his clavicle to the spot just at his hairline that had always made him go limp and pliable as a ragdoll when Jules had kissed it, and he could sense Lorraine’s shark-like smile of triumph behind him.

‘I’m not going to allow you to seduce me into bending to your wicked will,’ Philippe murmured, all too aware that Lorraine had succeeded entirely in that venture almost from the moment they met. Lorraine chuckled softly from behind him, one finger beneath his chin turning Philippe’s head to look at him.

‘I think you already have, my mignonette,’ he smiled, leaning down, and Philippe surrendered to the kiss with a breath of relief, tangling a hand in Lorraine’s hair to press their mouths closer. Lorraine was a phenomenal kisser, better than Jules and whats-his-name de Guiche from the year above in the Lycée, and Philippe was in heaven with those lips on his and Lorraine’s tongue gently nudging the seam of his lips. Lorraine took hold of one of Philippe’s hips and rolled him onto his back, moving to straddle his thighs, still kissing him, and Philippe let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whimper. Lorraine pressed down harder, against the rapidly swelling hardness in Philippe’s tight jeans, and Philippe moaned and rolled his hips, clutching at Lorraine’s hair and shoulders.

The other boy broke away with a smile, stroking Philippe’s hair back off his face.

‘Come with us. Please.’

‘On one condition,’ Philippe said, breathless, lips bee-stung and desperate for more contact between the pair of them. ‘Kiss me again.’

‘You drive a hard bargain, mignonette,’ Lorraine murmured, smiling against Philippe’s lips, and Philippe dragged him down enthusiastically.

* * *

  
The other condition for going out with Lorraine and his friends was, apparently, attendance at ‘pre-drinks’: a university ritual involving copious amounts of alcohol, a pack of cards, and unnecessarily sexual games of truth or dare. Philippe had already learned that Rohan had a third nipple (and had seen it), that Gaston had lost his virginity in a cinema with an incredibly unerotic _Pirates of the Caribbean_ film running, and Lorraine had been involved in an orgy at sixteen, fucked his way through an entire university sports team, and slept with no less than three university lecturers to improve his grades. ‘And still a lamentably low 2:2 for Roman history!’ Lorraine complained dramatically, smiling when his friends laughed and clinked their glasses against his own.

Gaston suggested a round of Ring of Fire, which had a great many complicated rules Philippe had never learned as a misbehaving teenager in France. Naturally, the others soon realised this and began making rules such as whenever a Jack was pulled, Lorraine had to sit on Philippe’s lap and be fed his next drink. Thankfully, by the time the second Jack had been taken from the pack, Philippe had done so many tequila shots already from other cards that he was more than happy to have Lorraine settle between his legs and open his mouth suggestively for the next shot. The blond was long and lithe, pressing himself against Philippe’s front, and the way he licked the salt and lime juice from Philippe’s fingers had his cock hardening in his jeans and his eyes half-lidded as Lorraine smirked at him over his shoulder.

‘Jesus, save it for the bedroom,’ Rohan laughed, nudging Lorraine with one elbow, and Philippe flushed, remembering where he was and what he was doing. _Breaking Louis' rules._

‘Or the club. It’s Glitterbomb night, to be fair,’ one of the boys, Michel, said. ‘It’s the queer night and they’ll be eye-fucking from across the bar. They’ll fit right in.’

‘We’re going to the gay night?’ Philippe blurted out, staring at Lorraine with wide eyes. His happy drunken buzz was doused by the cold flood of reality. Louis would kill him. _No more embarrassments_ , he’d said. Being photographed – being _caught_ – in a gay bar, with another man draped all over him, was the last thing he could do. But the press wouldn’t be allowed in there, would they? Surely not. They had laws about this sort of thing, privacy and such... But all clubs have photographers wandering around – and they publish photos to the webpages of the club – the press would still get hold of it, _Louis_ would get hold of it, and he’d have his studies cut short and be dragged back to France before he could say a word. Away from Lorraine. His gut clenched. He remembered Jules being sent away, the Cardinal removing his teenage sweetheart from court in disgrace, and his blustering and broken heart had barely swayed his brother at all. No. He couldn’t go.

‘Of course, mignonette. Glitterbomb is the best club night in town.’

‘I can’t,’ he protested, shaking his head. ‘My brother–’

‘Does not control you,’ Lorraine said, grasping Philippe’s chin and forcing him to look at him. ‘You have spent your whole life in his shadow, have you not? Is now not the time to break out?’

‘You don’t understand. If I’m seen – if I’m caught–’

‘You won’t be caught. I shall be your human shield. _Un chevalier dans l'armure étincelante_.’ Lorraine grinned. ‘Come on, mignonette, there’s nothing to worry about. We will protect you from every peering lens.’

Philippe finally sighed and nodded, admitting defeat. ‘Alright, but I’m going in disguise.’

‘As you wish.’


	4. Date Night at Glitterbomb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Philippe has what could be described as internalised homophobia/transphobia in here. Mostly regarding 'feminine' gay guys. Just worth mentioning in case it might upset anybody.

The final touch was a dot of eyeliner, a tiny black smudge, at the corner of his cheekbone. His eyes were lined in black, with long mascaraed lashes and delicate flicks at the edges of his eyelid, a slick of liquid kohl that made his blue eyes look bright as stars. His lips had been stained red with his favourite lipstick, one stolen from his mother’s enormous trays of makeup supplies when he had been only eight years old, and his hair was pulled into a knot at the back of his head with two gentle waves to frame his face, carefully painted into a heart-shaped version of itself. Transforming like this always brought a strange sense of peace to Philippe, as though by changing his face he could make everybody forget the King’s brother and make them fall in love with this beautiful girl instead. Turning around, he pulled the skater skirt of his dress straight, inspecting his tights for runs, and clipping a delicate black velvet ribbon choker around his neck. Satisfied with his appearance, he shifted into his heels – chunky black boots with buckles that clinked with his every step – and grabbed his handbag before making his way back downstairs.

Lorraine – his _chevalier_ – was engaged in a lively discussion with Béatrice, one of his housemates, but the entire kitchen fell silent as Philippe stepped into the room. Lorraine’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened, speechless for once in his life; Philippe’s stomach fluttered uneasily. Perhaps Lorraine was having second thoughts? There’s something to be said against agreeing or instigating a date with a man who then arrives dressed as a woman. (Obviously he knew he wasn’t a woman, trans or otherwise; he simply enjoyed dressing as one. But he was also aware of the levels of homophobic violence against men who dressed like women, or who thought they were women.)

‘I should change. Or not go.’ He swallowed hard, pulling at the hemline of his dress. He was taking such a risk –

He was spared the moments of fretting when Lorraine gulped, hard, and then stood up to bow like a fawning courtier and linked his arm through Philippe’s, planting a kiss on his cheek.

‘My dear,’ he announced, gazing seriously into Philippe’s wide eyes, ‘if you go anywhere tonight not on my arm, I shall never forgive you.’  
  


* * *

  
The club, as Philippe had expected, was a crush of hot bodies, with several dancers wandering around in the skimpiest, most genital-hugging underwear, or else standing on top of tables or the cushions of couches to grind against the metal railings separating two booths. The music was pounding so loud he could feel the vibrations in his chest, heart thudding, and he grasped nervously at Lorraine’s fingers where they rested in the crook of his arm. Lorraine led him first to the bar, where Philippe bought them both some ridiculous pink, fruity concoction pointed to on the menu by Lorraine, which arrived in tin cans garnished with sparkly pink streamers. Philippe raised his eyebrows, and Lorraine laughed gaily, knocking his back in one swallow.

‘Don’t think about it, darling, just drink it.’

Philippe did as he was told. In all honesty, it wasn’t too bad – tasting of raspberries and watermelon liqueur, with a kick to it that could rival a donkey – but he didn’t have much time to think about ordering them both another as Chevalier had dropped his arm to greet a friend, flinging his arms around the man’s neck and peppering his face in kisses. He dragged Philippe over, insisting ‘You really must meet Mathieu – an old, old friend of mine, such a charming manner about him–’ and Philippe dutifully smiled, shook Mathieu’s hand and introduced himself. Mathieu seemed more than a little taken aback to realise the pretty girl on Lorraine’s arm was not, in fact, a girl at all, but then shrugged and invited them both to dance.

Lorraine accepted the invitation wholeheartedly on both of their behalves, and pulled Rohan and Gaston and the rest of his group into the centre of the dancefloor with them as a new song came on and he shrieked excitedly, waving his hands above his head. Philippe had no idea quite what was so exciting about _Lady Marmalade_ , but Lorraine was grasping one of the poles and demonstrating his abilities, swinging around and dropping down with thighs wide, staring up sultrily at Mathieu from under lowered eyelids, batting his lashes. He wriggled back up against the pole and took hold of Mathieu’s collar, pulling him close, shifting one of Mathieu’s hands to his waist as he pressed against him and laid a kiss on his lips.

Philippe turned away and stormed back to the bar, blood simmering. He ordered a random drink off the cocktail menu and rested his palms against the edge of the bar, inhaling deeply and battling the rising tide of anger and jealousy. Because of course he was jealous. He’d been led to believe that Lorraine had wanted to spend the time they were at the club with him, dancing, and yet the moment Philippe had so much as blinked, he was wrapping himself like a vine around another ‘friend’ and looking quite frankly like he was begging for a fuck. Philippe wanted to punch him, or Mathieu, or both. Instead he downed his drink, paid for another, and stared morosely at the crowd of people otherwise enjoying their night tripping over one another to the thumping beat of something by Nicki Minaj.

The barman who served Philippe his drink this time was a cute brunette, with soft waves that framed his face, flattering a sharp jawline and cheekbones that could cut glass, but Philippe wasn’t interested. He nursed his drink as he wandered around the crowd, ignoring Rohan’s gestures to rejoin them, and instead found a small knot of people from the fencing society, among whom he recognised Nina and the men’s team captain Luca. Nina was at least glad to see him, shifting her drink to her other hand to wrap one arm around his neck and kiss his cheek, exclaiming ‘We didn’t think we’d see you here! Are you here with the LGBT soc too?’ Her eyes travelled over his body, widening at the sight of the dress, before beaming and turning his head one way and then the next.

‘What a gorgeous dress! Who did your makeup?’

‘I did,’ Philippe shouted over the music, ‘I watched YouTube tutorials a lot when I was younger, and managed to pick a bit of it up. I was supposed to be here with friends, but they’ve, uh, abandoned me.’

‘Come dance with us,’ Nina smiled, pulling him into the centre of her group and introducing him to Cara, the head of the LGBT society; her girlfriend, Ellie; Nicholas, Nina’s boyfriend; and Thomas, a Literature student wearing an ironic Poe tshirt and a bandana around his curly dark hair. Accepting this somewhat motley crew as his replacement dates for the evening, Philippe joined in for the next song, although ballet skills didn’t quite gel with Beyoncé’s _Single Ladies_. Thomas knew all the moves, however, and attempted to teach him, much to Nina and Ellie’s amusement. Philippe managed to get the head tossing and superior look right, however, and against all odds actually enjoyed himself. At least until he spotted Lorraine with his arms around a beautiful brunette girl in a short black dress, making out with considerable enthusiasm. His heart sank, and he excused himself to the bar.

A tap on his shoulder made him turn around to a painfully thin, platinum-blond boy in one of those stupid flower crowns, who waved a wallet at him and beamed to show gappy front teeth.

‘What can I get you? You look sad.’

‘I’m perfectly capable of buying my own drinks, thank you,’ Philippe gritted through his teeth, and the boy shrugged.

‘I was just trying to be friendly. But hey, my name’s Jack.’

‘Philippe.’

‘Are you at the Metropolitan?’

‘No, Kent.’ He felt a little guilty about the stilted, monosyllabic answers, but he’d never been good at _friendly_ , per se, and he was still pissed off at Lorraine.

‘What do you study?’

‘Art History and Literature.’

‘Wow. I’m an English Literature student too, first year.’

‘Good for you. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ Philippe moved a foot or so down the bar, deliberately burying himself among several others to fend off more pity advances from oblivious first years. As if he’d go for anyone like Jack anyway. He much preferred a more masculine man, with an actual jawline and stubble, instead of the smooth cheeks of someone barely out of puberty and the effeminate swishy manner to go with it. He shook his head at himself – _Philippe, you’re being bitter_ , he heard in Louis’ condescending voice, and balled his fists – and left the bar to get some air outside. Unfortunately the only place to get some air was in the smoking area, which somewhat contradicted his purpose, but he made do, begging a cigarette and a lighter from the first person he met, a girl with dark hair in the same dress as him.

‘Excellent dress sense,’ she commented, dipping her cigarette towards his torso, and he smiled tightly, lighting his own cigarette and taking a deep drag. He immediately burst out coughing, having never really smoked before – Louis had at the Lycée, and he knew Bontemps had done for several years before taking over as Louis’ valet – and she smirked at him before going back to conversation with her friend. They were discussing Lorraine, as it turned out, whom the brunette seemed to know very well if her account of his exploits with a roommate of hers was anything to go by.

‘Anyway, Oliver said we’re no longer to let him into the house. Apparently the poor thing had given himself over entirely to Lorraine, heart and soul, and picking up the pieces after no phone call came was positively painful. I’ve never made so many cups of tea in my life.’ She shook her head dismally and took another drag on her cigarette. ‘He’s got a new toy now, from what Rohan has been telling me, some naïve little French pet who thinks the sun shines out of his arse,’ she scoffed and her friend giggled. ‘God help the poor creature.’

Philippe had heard more than enough. Yes, he was certainly glad that Louis wasn’t here to witness his total and abject humiliation; he would have laughed until he had an aneurysm. De Guiche and Mazarin weren’t bad enough, it would seem. Philippe had to fall head over heels for the single most selfish, wanton man in the entire universe, by seemingly popular opinion.

He stubbed his cigarette out on top of the bin and threaded his way back through the smoking area just as Lorraine entered, beaming all over his face and visibly steaming drunk.

‘Mignonette!’

‘Don’t you dare _mignonette_ me,’ Philippe hissed furiously, eyes glittering. ‘I’ve agreed, under duress I might add, to come to this stupid club with its ridiculous music and fucking _pole dancers_ of all things, under the impression I was going on a date with you. Upon arriving I find you immediately attach yourself like a particularly lecherous limpet to the first man you find and promptly spend the rest of the night flitting around every single person on the dance floor, plying your charms and leaving me entirely on my own. I have no interest in even looking at you at the moment, let alone speaking to you, and if you don’t mind I am going home and to bed.’

‘Mignonette, please, stay…’

‘Why on earth would I stay here, with you, after tonight? I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot barge pole,’ Philippe snapped, and gave Lorraine a disgusted glance. ‘I might catch something.’ He spun on his heel and stormed off down the road, turning to the left to enter the subway.

‘Hey – hey, you can’t just say that and walk away–!’ Lorraine was scooting around the edges of the smoking area, ignoring the many curious and giggling rubberneckers watching their argument, and chased after Philippe, waving his hands and stumbling over the pavement.

‘Funny,’ Philippe said coldly, ignoring him entirely, ‘as that seems to be exactly what I’m doing at the moment.’

Lorraine’s hand caught him on the shoulder to slow him down, and he shook it off furiously.

‘Stop. Mignonette, stop – come back–’

‘I’ve already told you several times not to call me that. Say it once more and I shall castrate you with a broken bottle and stuff your severed cock in your mouth so you can’t call me anything at all,’ Philippe bit out, whirling to face him. ‘I have spent the night in complete humiliation at your hands and I have absolutely no desire to continue this conversation now or at any point in the future. I’ve had enough of you.’

This was met with whey-faced silence from Lorraine, who stood stock-still with his curls in disarray – most likely from the multitude of fingers tangling through them while he kissed them, Philippe thought bitterly. He strode off back towards the university bus stop, footsteps echoing off the tiled subway walls, until he heard Lorraine speak after a long beat.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No you’re not,’ Philippe said, suddenly tired. ‘You’re sorry you got caught, if you’re sorry at all. You’re sorry that I’m angry with you, not sorry for what you’ve done.’

‘I’m sorry for hurting you,’ Lorraine insisted, taking a hesitant step towards him. When Philippe didn’t retreat, he sped up, stopping just in front of him with an expression like a kicked puppy. He seemed to be waiting for Philippe to say something, but at the prince’s stoic silence, he continued.

‘Please come back.’

‘No.’ Point-blank.

‘At least let’s go back and collect the others.’

‘So you can immediately go back to Mathieu’s arms? No.’

‘What do you want of me, mignonette?’ Lorraine shouted, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. ‘I ask you to come with us, I have one little kiss with a friend and you throw this almighty tantrum and storm out! I apologise, which, I might add, I _never_ do, and you still shoot me down in flames. What are you expecting me to do? Get on one knee and profess my undying love? I don’t do that.’

‘I’m not even going to address the ‘little kiss’, nor the ‘tantrum’,’ Philippe spat. ‘What I am _expecting_ of you is this: that if you ask someone out on a date, that you at least pay attention to them for the span of that date and that, for the love of God, you don’t just discard them like every other toy you’ve gotten bored of when another prospect – _any_ other prospect – comes along!’ His voice was wobbling, tears threatening through his anger, and Lorraine’s face softened, his hand reaching out to smooth his thumb over Philippe’s cheekbone. He swatted angrily at him, sniffling, but Lorraine pulled him closer, cooing to him as one would a crying child.

‘Oh mignonette, you’re quite right. I’ve been terribly rude tonight.’ He gazed at Philippe with soft, affectionate eyes, and Philippe felt his anger melting away, replaced with a miserable desperation and crushing feeling of heartbreak. ‘Please, at least let me walk you home. I promise, you shall have my undivided attention for the remainder of the night.’

‘There’s hardly any of the night left,’ he mumbled, gesturing to the clock tower reading 1:43am, but allowed Lorraine to take his hand nonetheless and gently lead him towards the taxi rank to go home.


	5. Minette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit this is a long chapter. like 800-words-longer-than-i-usually-write-for-this-fic long chapter.
> 
> also oops i’m still not done and it’s already two chapters longer than i originally planned it to be. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

_Hey Brother_ blaring from his phone woke Philippe with a groan the next morning, groping blindly for the vibrating handset and succeeding in knocking it off the bedside table onto the floor, and he cursed before rolling over and fishing it out of his shoe to answer the call. LOUIS flashed on the screen with the ‘pick up’ tab, but he swiped right instead to decline the call in favour of five more minutes of bleary dozing before Louis would call back. There were already three texts from his brother in his inbox, all of which he deleted, before his phone started vibrating again and this time he answered, not caring how thick and gruff with sleep his voice would sound.

‘Louis, you realise we’re an hour behind here, yes? I know you consider 7am a decent time to contact me when I’m actually with you, but I’d really prefer that you save your phone calls for a time when the rest of humanity are usually at a basically-functioning level.’ He checked the time on his phone, 6:07, and actually whimpered. ‘Louis, it’s 6am.’

‘7 here, which as you say, I consider a decent time to contact you. It’s important.’

‘I’m all ears,’ Philippe said sarcastically, flopping back down to the mattress with a squeak of bedsprings.

‘I’m issuing an invitation–’

‘An order to attend, you mean.’

‘An _invitation_ to the Congressional dinner next May, which, naturally, as a prince of the court you will be expected to attend. As little power as the monarchy realistically holds these days, we have obligations we must keep.’

‘And I am to attend, smile politely whenever anyone points a camera towards me, not utter a word other than what an _honour_ it is to be invited to attend, and not get drunk like 2015 and attempt to seduce the _président_ behind the fireworks display?’ Philippe asked in a bored tone, flicking a speck of dirt out from under his thumbnail, and trying to remember who had been elected president of the National Assembly in the past year. The président in 2015 had been a rather handsome man in his early fifties with a touch of silver-fox Richard Gere about him – not Philippe’s usual type, but with a certain _je ne sais quois_ which was utterly irresistable. Sadly for Philippe, not even the promise of an insanely rich prince’s affections for the night had managed to sway said president from his strictly heterosexual predilections, but let it be said that Philippe had at least tried. He minimised the phone chat to google the current président and made a face. ‘Ah, no worry about that this year. He looks like Jabba the Hutt in a toupée.’

Ignoring this comment, Louis plowed on: ‘You are to attend and to behave as is expected of a Bourbon prince,’ ‘And whatever flavour-of-the-month creature you have at the moment is to stay precisely where you found him. I won’t have a repeat of Mazarin at the 2012 dinner.’

Philippe smiled fondly at the memory. The dinner had been held at court in Versailles with its many enormous rooms furnished with swathes of silk and velvet, chairs upholstered in brocade, in the main dining room. The dinner had drawn to a close and most of the participants retired to their rooms when the servants, upon passing, had heard unusual sounds coming from the hall of mirrors and had found Philippe in flagrante delicto with Jules and one of the scullery boys, all three of them naked as the day they were born and surrounded by shattered glass. (Philippe had gotten too enthusiastic whilst being fucked up against one of the mirrors and had lashed out on a desperate cry of ‘Yes!’, smashing one with his fist. The wound had required stitches and he still had the scar today.) He was running a finger idly up and down the puckered white line from his smallest knuckle to his wrist when Louis’ voice called him out of his fantasy.

‘Leave them at home, do you understand?’

‘Why brother, you give me no credit. I was ordered, if you remember, not to involve myself with any _creatures_ whilst in England, and I am a man of my word.’ He adopted his most saintly voice. ‘I am but a humble servant of my brother, my lord and master–’

Louis gave a snort of disgust and cut the call at the other end. Philippe counted that as a victory, rolling over to go back to sleep for the two hours until he needed to be awake for his seminar.  
  


* * *

  
Philippe settled himself towards the back of the seminar room, hoping to avoid being called upon too much by the grad student leading the seminar. The projector screen was already loaded with the presentation topic, Homer’s _Odyssey_ in relation to the Tale, with a gruesome picture of a cyclops having its eye gouged out with a stick. Philippe vaguely remembered the scene from having read the text in the Lycée during one of his Classical Studies modules, but in the tempest of the past few days he’d completely forgotten to reread it or do any of the background reading for the seminar – not even the sparknotes – and so it was imperative that he avoided being called on. He opened his laptop and attempted to look busy when the seminar leader came in, heading straight to the projector and clicking onto the first slide.

‘I’m going to be passing around a paper register to record attendance,’ she said in her deceptively gentle accent, ‘and under that a sheet of presentation topics for the next few weeks. Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_ , Apuleius’ _The Golden Ass_ , _The 1001 Arabian Nights_ and so forth. Write your name next to whichever presentation topic you want to take. If more than one of you want to take the same text, either sort it out amongst yourselves or create a group presentation. Group presentations will be marked individually, according to each person’s contribution and performance. So don’t think you can leave it up to one person to do all the work and then coast through.’ She fixed the class with a stern gaze and Philippe saw several other students exchange slightly guilty looks. He smirked.

Naturally, her attention moved right to him.

‘There. At the back. What would you say are the defining traits of Odysseus’ heroism? Does he really deserve to be called a hero?’

Philippe ran through every curse he knew in his head before answering. ‘Well, his defining traits are definitely… uh… that sort of Machiavellian deviance, the trickery he uses to get the upper hand. With the cyclops, he’s obviously realised that he’s not going to best him with strength, so he uses his mind instead. When you think of Greek heroes, you think of, um, Hercules and people like him – all strength, but thick. Achilles uses his anger and grief at Patroclus’ death to beat Hector. Hercules was so strong anyone else was barely even a contest. But Odysseus thinks – like his mind is actually his main weapon.’ Like Louis, he thought bitterly. Always two steps ahead, never filling anyone in until the last minute when it becomes blatantly obvious anyway. The two of them would have gotten on well. He wondered for a moment which Greek hero he would be compared to in his life; not strong enough physically for Hercules, not cunning enough for Odysseus – Louis would probably say Achilles. Ruled by his heart and his pride. But Philippe couldn’t imagine loving anyone so much that he would cut short his own life to avenge theirs.

‘That’s a very valid point,’ the seminar leader agreed, clicking onto the next slide. ‘Odysseus indeed embodies the Greek concept of _dolos_ , trickery, using his resourcefulness and deceitfulness to overcome the challenges and enemies he faces. The _Odyssey_ , with its concept and exploration of _dolos_ , challenges the traditional notions of heroism in that it is the opposite of heroes such as Achilles and Heracles, who show martial prowess and strength in personal combat, ‘Iliadic heroism’. One gets the feeling that in a fight between the greatest Iliad-style hero of the age and Odysseus, the latter would come out victorious, as he knows how to use an enemy’s strengths and weaknesses to his advantage. Take for example the cyclops Polyphemus…’

‘Would you not argue also though that he is exactly the same as heroes like Achilles?’ a girl beside Philippe objected, raising her hand. ‘Achilles’ downfall was his pride, _hubris_ , wasn’t it? And you could argue that a lot of what Odysseus suffered, he brought upon himself because of telling the cyclops his real name. He wanted the world to know that it was Odysseus who blinded him, so the cyclops told the god Poseidon, his father, and so Poseidon made Odysseus’ life hell on the journey back to Ithaca. I would argue that for all he was a hero of the mind, he suffered from the exact same character pitfalls as most of the other Greek heroes and therefore there’s no real difference at all.’

Several other voices raised both in agreement and dissention around them until the seminar leader raised her voice to quiet them again.

‘Okay, okay,’ she said, making settling motions with her hands, ‘we’ll put it to a vote. Who thinks Odysseus is a hero, in the traditional sense?’

A few hands were raised here and there.

‘And in the non-traditional sense?’

The majority of the class raised their hands. Philippe did not, lost in thought.

‘Philippe, you haven’t voted. What are your thoughts?’

‘I’m not sure I would describe him as a hero at all. I would argue that a hero is a moral figure of benevolent aid, not a manipulative piece of – work – who lies, schemes and cheats to get what he wants. He uses his brain, yes, but for the majority of the book, the only person benefiting from that is himself. He essentially sacrifices his crew to Scylla and Charybdis, to Polyphemus… And then when he comes back, after being horrified and full of righteous indignation at the way the Cyclops ignored the Greek rules of hospitality–’

‘ _Xenia_.’

‘– _xenia_ , yes, he behaves the exact same way towards the suitors. From Polyphemus’ perspective, Odysseus and his men in his cave were exactly like the suitors, coming in to his home, intending to steal and eat his livestock, and threatening his general existence. In that sense, he’s perfectly within his rights to at least chase them away, if maybe not murder and eat them all. And yet we don’t feel sympathetic, because he’s attacking ‘the hero’. When we get back to Ithaca and Odysseus is murdering the suitors and left covered in their blood and gore, just like the cyclops after he ate Odysseus’ men, we’re supposed to be happy because the hero is home at last and defending his home and his wife against interlopers. That doesn’t read as heroic to me, it reads as bias and as a man who can’t control his temper.’ He hadn’t realised he’d been raising his voice, but the whole room was deathly quiet, staring at him, except for the seminar leader, who had a sparkling sort of curiosity in her eyes and looked – if he wasn’t much mistaken – almost impressed.

‘You’re obviously very passionate about this.’

‘Odysseus is, for want of a better word, an asshole,’ Philippe replied. ‘He reminds me of someone I know well.’

The seminar leader laughed, and with that, continued with the rest of the lesson.

At the end of class, she crossed the room to where Philippe was packing his things away and leant against the desk, bright blue eyes searching his with an amused smile on her face.

‘That was more words out of you in ten minutes than I’ve heard all year,’ she said, grinning at him, and he gave her a shy smile back.

‘Like you said, I guess I’m passionate about it.’

‘I must say, I’m terribly curious as to who Odysseus reminds you of,’ she said with a conspiratorial smile. ‘Go on, I won’t tell anybody.’

‘My brother,’ he said, looking at her properly for the first time. She was pretty, in an ordinary sort of way – not striking, not beautiful, but pretty, with wide eyes and the sort of face made for laughter. Her smile was full of mischief, and he could imagine actually becoming very good friends with this woman. She’s the sort he would have liked to marry, if he’d have to marry a woman at all. She looked like she’d speak her mind; a breath of fresh air in Paris, at court, where his brother and his sycophantic courtiers smiled to one another’s faces and plotted behind one another’s backs.

She laughed and nodded. ‘I have a similar relationship with several of my acquaintances.’ She held out her hand, square, almost mannish, but with the most beautifully rounded nails, seashell pink and delicate. Philippe admired them as he took it and shook before she spoke again.

‘I know you’ve only got me for this one seminar this week, but I hope to be seeing you around campus and in a few more of my taught modules next year. I’m Liselotte.’

‘You already know my name,’ he said with a smile, but still shook her hand again and thanked her for her time before leaving the room.  
  


* * *

  
After that seminar he had a break of a couple of hours before his Art History lecture in the afternoon, so Philippe headed to the library to begin working on the presentation topic he’d put himself down for: Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. There was another student, something like Michael, who’d put his name down in a delicate, elegant script that gave Philippe a brief pang of jealousy looking at his own untidy scrawl. He settled down at one of the quiet study tables with his cinder block-sized copy of the works of Shakespeare when a girl sat down opposite, pulled her curly blonde hair back into its neat bun (what was it with him and seemingly attracting curly-haired blondes like a magnet?) before putting on a cute little tortoiseshell pair of reading glasses and opening her notebook. He was about to speak and ask if he could help her when she beat him to it:

‘You’re Philippe, right? From Liselotte’s Tale seminars? I’m Minette, I put my name down for Shakespeare as well. If you’d rather do it on your own then I can always ask if Gogol in the second term is free, but I’d like to do this topic and was wondering if you wouldn’t mind doing it as a group?’

Philippe blinked at her before replying. ‘I don’t care either way. But I guess we can do it as a group. Did you have any ideas about where to start?’

She grinned at him before launching into an in-depth plan the likes of which Philippe had only ever before seen on his father’s battle tactics correspondence, and within half an hour they had delegated Philippe Shakespeare’s background and life, and the influences of classical texts and myths and legends on his works whilst Minette would be covering the play itself in detail. She had also told Philippe that she was distantly royal herself, the daughter of one of the Queen’s nieces or nephews or something like that, had a brother – older – called Charles, and that she’d come to university hoping to get both a degree and Prince William out of it (‘Though I’d settle, maybe, for Harry’). His head was spinning with the rush of information and he held out his hands in a supplicating gesture – ‘please, stop, for just two minutes’.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘was I going too fast? Anyway, so Shakespeare was massively influenced by Ovid and the Metamorphoses – we’re covering that next week, so we’ll have to pay special attention – especially Pyramus and Thisbe, which is the play Bottom and the Mechanicals put on in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It’s fascinating really, isn’t it, how both of these texts are so old and yet they’re still being studied as major works of literature nowadays? My brother told me that the humanities and arts were a waste of time, a bit rich from someone who patronises just about every theatre in London at every opportunity he gets, but there you go.’

‘It must be a thing with brothers,’ Philippe said, ‘mine’s much the same.’

Minette smiled at him, her brown eyes bright. ‘Your brother is Louis, right, the King of France?’

‘Yes, by misfortune of birth.’ Philippe rolled his eyes. ‘But really, I’d rather talk about anything else. The weather, perhaps. Cabbages. The reproduction process of the common fruit fly. He doesn’t much approve of me, and the majority of the time I can’t stand him, so there’s very little to be said that won’t come out sounding bitter, angry, accusatory, or all three at once.’

Minette nodded and hesitated for a moment, her eyes flickering down to her lap where she twisted the hem of her dress between elegant, nervous fingers. Philippe narrowed his eyes.

‘What? Do I have something on my face?’

‘No, no… I was just wondering if I could ask you something personal.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t, but I suppose we’re relatively alone, so you can.’

‘Are you gay?’ Her face immediately flamed red.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t expect that to come out quite so bluntly. Yes, I am.’

‘Oh, excellent.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘No, I just mean… My mother has been on and on at me to find myself a nice, well-bred young man, and I’ve read in the papers that your brother is… _opposed_ … to your, erm, lifestyle… I was just wondering if, if it would make your life as much easier as it would mine… if you would like to date me. For appearance’s sake, obviously. To keep my mother off my back, and I assume keep your brother off yours.’

Philippe gave it all of thirty seconds’ thought before agreeing. ‘Fine,’ he said flippantly, shrugging his shoulders. Take her out a couple of times, make sure people see them together, convince Louis he was toeing the line, and then… And then he remembered last night. Lorraine – his Chevalier, as he’d begun thinking of him – on the doorstep to his student dormitory, standing beneath the porch light, his blue eyes sparkling like stars as he stroked Philippe’s hair out of his face, smudging the blusher on his cheeks and smearing his lipstick. ‘Darling mignonette,’ he’d whispered, a smile on his lips, ‘how debauched you look.’ _How I wish you’d debauch me_ , Philippe had almost said, but he’d settled for pressing their lips together, one hand around the back of the Chevalier’s neck, leaning down a little from the height of the step. They’d stood there on the porch, trading kisses under the starlight, for what felt like hours before the Chevalier pulled away and said regretfully that he had to leave, that he wouldn’t push his luck any further. He’d given Philippe’s hand a squeeze goodbye, and the skin had tingled all the way upstairs to his bedroom, his lips kiss-bruised and cheeks flushed. Philippe’s heart had skipped a beat that night, and every moment since.

But dating for appearance’s sake… that didn’t matter, surely?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Odysseus sucks. Fight me.
> 
> (Sorry about the brain blurt in the middle of this chapter. IDK I just really needed like a 'filler' scene to introduce Henriette and oops it ended up being like 1700 words long and I got overexcited about how much of an asshole Odysseus is. I really did use one of my essays written on the exact topic of 'Is Odysseus a hero?' to write the seminar scene in this chapter. Anyone who wants to read it, it's [here](http://transdorleans.tumblr.com/post/161367613562/so-i-decided-being-a-massive-nerd-that-i-was) on my tumblr.)
> 
> Also yes his seminar leader is Liselotte and I know she's not meant to be in the picture yet but honestly she wrote herself in there and I love her so much I can't bear to write her out again. She's the best character on the whole show, hands down. Liselotte for queen 1672-forever.
> 
> P.S. GET READY FOR JEALOUS CHEVY (omg s2 watchers i know, i’m sorry, there will be more of it, i can only apologise in advance)


	6. Si tu ne m'aimes pas, personne ne m'aime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Absurd boys have absurd fights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Vomit, tiny bit of dub/non-con (drunkenness).

Of course, entering into a relationship – however false – with even a minor member of the English royal family led to complications of its own. Philippe couldn’t set foot outside of his own dormitory door without having photographers swarming around him as the new beau of the Princess Henrietta, an experience he had not missed from the French paparazzi and had, until now, miraculously avoided in England. Many of them shouted questions at him, pushing microphones in his face, and no amount of pretending ‘Je ne parle pas l’anglais’ would make them go away. (On the contrary, Minette had praised his English until he told her in the driest tone he could muster that he’d been bilingual from the age of three and that it was a great failing of his in his mother’s eyes that he could not also speak German and Dutch, like Louis.) Philippe repeated ‘no comment’ until it was almost automatic, and dashed inside the Cornwallis building so he could sneak into the theatre, where his Drama and Theatrical Arts lecture was being held, unmolested by the press.

Minette, on the other hand, sailed through the turbulence with the beatific patience of a saint. She gave as few comments as she could, and those she did give always skirted coyly around the subject of Philippe with a smile and a bat of her eyelashes. He could only admire her for her masterful handling of the situation and again thought, with a pang of anger, that Minette was an identical match for Louis in that regard. Mercifully the Chevalier had not reappeared since that Tuesday night a month ago when he had kissed Philippe on his porch; there were no lurid paparazzi photographs of them splashed all over the English tabloids to warrant another furious call from Louis. Philippe missed him something terrible; he could imagine the sarcastic, self-inflating comments the Chevalier would make about his own beauty being more worthy of the photographers’ efforts, flouncing around in his ridiculous retro ruffled shirts and tight jeans.

Today was a Sunday, the day before Philippe and Minette’s Shakespeare presentation was due, and they had met up in a café in town that served everything with chocolate, where Minette had ordered crêpes and Philippe had ordered strawberries covered with chocolate and a glass of rosé champagne. They both had assorted textbooks spread out over the tiny table and Philippe was sucking the chocolate off a strawberry thoughtfully, Minette writing notes and tapping away on her computer, when a familiar voice announced the arrival of the Chevalier seconds before he plonked himself down in the empty seat beside Philippe and kissed his cheek.

‘Mignonette!’ he said brightly, taking a strawberry off Philippe’s plate and fixing him with a sultry gaze as he took a bite, ‘what a lovely surprise to see you here! You’ve been terribly absent recently, I’d rather thought you’d forgotten me – how absurd of me! – but here you are–’

Minette looked up from her notes and smiled. Philippe felt his heart constrict in his chest. The Chevalier was looking expectantly between himself and Minette, beaming all over his handsome face.

‘And in such radiant company! Who’s this?’

‘I’m–’ she started, before Philippe blurted out, ‘This is my girlfriend. Minette. Henriette, I mean.’

The Chevalier’s face fell, blanching, and he glanced again at Minette, who was still smiling curiously.

‘Your _girlfriend_?’ He spat the word as though it were poison in his mouth.

‘Yes, and don’t listen to Philippe, Minette is absolutely fine. Are you the famous Lorraine? Philippe’s told me ever so much about you–’ Minette began, and the Chevalier let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

‘Not enough, it seems.’

‘Lorraine, we’re… we’re studying for tomorrow. We have an important presentation.’

‘ _Lorraine_ now, is it? I see. I understand completely. Well, Philippe, it was simply _lovely_ to see you again. I can’t _wait_ to catch up about all these exciting developments–’

‘Would you excuse us?’ Philippe interrupted desperately, begging Minette with his eyes, and she blinked, surprised, before nodding graciously.

‘Of course.’

Philippe grabbed the Chevalier by the arm and hauled him out of the café and into the alleyway behind, where Lorraine wrenched his arm out of Philippe’s grip and swung around furiously. His voice was thick with tears and loud, _too_ loud, when he spoke:

‘Go back inside, your _whore_ is waiting for you!’

‘Don’t call her that,’ Philippe bit out coldly. ‘She’s not a whore. She’s – she’s a nice girl.’

‘A nice girl?’ The Chevalier laughed wildly, his blue eyes wide. ‘That’s what you say about a dog, Philippe. Not a girlfriend. She’s a whore, and you’re – you’re a liar, and a bastard, and–’

‘And for that language I could have had you imprisoned. A slanderous verbal assault on royalty.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You’d better hope Louis doesn’t hear of it.’

‘At least Louis has a backbone!’ The Chevalier shrieked, swinging at Philippe, pinning him against the wall. ‘Louis would have told me himself! He wouldn’t have let me see it in some – shitty Daily Mail article a month ago that his boyfriend was involved with some putrid female from the most inbred family in Europe–’

Philippe yanked an arm free and punched him in the face, fury overtaking him. Blood burst from the Chevalier’s nose over his lip and Philippe’s knuckles, and he gave a yell of pain before staggering away, falling against a set of recycling bins in the corner. Breathing heavily, Philippe stalked back towards the alley entrance only to feel pain burst over his shoulderblade as a piece of wood came whistling through the air to slam against his shoulder. There was a crack that echoed through the whole alley, and he didn’t know whether it was his shoulder or the wood, but he was incensed and turned to see the Chevalier brandishing a broom handle like a fencing foil.

He picked up the nearest thing he could see – a metal mop pole – and charged towards him, swinging the pole ferociously. The Chevalier deflected with a _riposte_ , eyes narrowed, and Philippe didn’t even take a minute to consider the ridiculousness of the situation before launching firmly into another attack. Wood clacked against metal as the Chevalier parried, forcing Philippe backwards with a _remise_ of short, sharp movements jabbing towards his arms and torso which landed enough hits to feel as though his entire chest was one huge bruise. Spectators had begun to congregate around the alleyway entrance, laughing and cat-calling the pair of them and being ignored in the heat of the moment before Philippe dropped in a _passa sotto_ before stabbing upwards with the mop pole and landing a direct – and vicious – hit in the Chevalier’s solar plexus. He crumpled to the floor in tears to the sound of applause from the watching crowd and Philippe turned to see several camera phones out, fixed on his face, as he huffed breathlessly and stormed away.  
  


* * *

  
The presentation passed in a blur to Philippe. Minette did most of the talking, and what little he did say he didn’t remember afterwards, still furious about the Chevalier and their fight the day before. He had had to turn up to the seminar with one arm in a sling after the nurse had discovered that his swollen, tender collarbone was broken (he didn’t want to see her, but Minette had insisted), and there was a scrape on his left cheek from the bricks of the alley wall when Lorraine had slammed him against it. Minette had been horrified when she found out what had happened, but Philippe had just grinned savagely and said ‘You should’ve seen the other guy.’

Which, it transpired, she had. On the Canterbury Residents Facebook page. With over two hundred likes and several comments, most of which tagged friends of the viewers but among which were ‘alley catfight between two faggots’ and ‘should’ve been using real swords and saved themselves the bother’. Philippe cringed. It would take all of two minutes for some opportunistic asshole at the press to watch the video, identify Philippe, and hotwire it to the French press where he would be lambasted for brawling in public like a common thug and would earn him another phonecall from Louis about the expectations for royal behaviour and how Philippe was a complete and utter embarrassment to the entire French court. He spat bitterly, his shoulder throbbing dully, and popped another ibuprofen. He’d neither eaten nor waited the prescribed four hours since the last one, but with a bit of luck he’d do himself in before Louis could get hold of him.

Avicii blared from his phone and he cursed. He should be so lucky.

‘Philippe,’ Louis said, his voice actually trembling with rage, ‘are you doing your absolute best to embarrass me over there? Caught beating another man with a metal pole in an alleyway!’

‘He insulted Minette,’ Philippe hissed, ‘and, I might mention, our mother.’

‘What he said or did does not matter. What matters is he provoked your absurdly short temper into a PUBLIC brawl in the middle of town at 3pm on a Sunday afternoon!’

‘So glad to hear you retain the particulars of the incident, brother.’

‘I remember the particulars of every time you’ve publicly humiliated me, _brother_ ,’ Louis spat, ‘and this is only the latest on a very, very long list.’

‘If the sole purpose of this call is to lecture me, then spare me.’ Philippe spat back. ‘I am not a wayward child to be governed from afar, Louis. I am a grown man and can make my own decisions and mistakes.’

‘Not when they reflect badly on all of us! The Bourbon prince of France beating a citizen of his host country into the ground in the middle of town like some sort of savage!’ Louis yelled. ‘You will cease your studies, you will return to France where you cannot cause trouble, and you will remember your position as Prince!’

‘You’re grounding me?’ Philippe mocked, swallowing another ibuprofen with a sour laugh, ‘That works on children, Louis. Not me.’

‘Come back at once.’

‘No.’ Philippe hung up.  
  


* * *

  
Minette at least managed to get Facebook to remove the video. She came to visit him twice, to ‘liaise’ about how to deal with any press questions about the matter, but Philippe refused point blank to discuss it and eventually she left in frustration. Philippe stayed in his room, nursing his wounded shoulder and sulking like an angry bear. Louis had blown up his phone with seven more attempted calls until he threw it at the wall in a fit of temper and the screen cracked and went black. It was lying dead on his desk whilst he blasted Joan Jett’s _Bad Reputation_ when he heard a tentative knock on the door and heard Sophie’s voice shouting ‘You’ve got a visitor!’ over the music.

‘Tell them to piss off!’

The door banged open a moment later and the Chevalier threw himself down on the bed next to him, glaring viciously with a black eye and a scabbing-over cut on his bottom lip. His curls were lank, unwashed, bundled messily on top of his head and with large sections already escaping. He was wearing an outfit Philippe was sure he’d seen him in at least three days ago around the university quad, and his eyes, around the bruising, were red and puffy.

Philippe scrambled up to sit, glowering.

‘Get out.’

‘No.’

‘I’m not having this argument again with you. Next time you’re going out of my window, voluntarily or not. I’m asking you nicely. Get. Out.’

‘And I’m telling you, mignonette, go _fuck_ yourself.’ Lorraine’s voice wavered, and Philippe sagged against the wall in defeat.

‘Whatever. But I’ve got nothing to discuss with you.’

‘Excellent. Maybe this time you’ll close your fat fucking mouth and engage your brain before attacking me. Actually listen to me for once.’

‘I didn’t–’

‘Exactly. You took the coward’s way out. Instead of coming to me and saying to me that you’d found someone else, you were always out and avoiding me on campus – don’t think I didn’t notice how your eyes would find me and then slide away, and you’d turn a corner away from me – and then Rohan, Rohan of all fucking people, comes to me with the most – shit-eating grin and throws this rag of a newspaper at me and says ‘Isn’t this your pretty thing?’ And there you are. On the front page, wrapped around your – around some woman you’ve clearly only known five minutes, or you’d have mentioned her to me. And then every time I see you afterwards, you’re with her. Kissing her, or snuggling on the library chairs, or waiting outside each other’s lecture halls with coffee and food – it makes me sick.’ He glared at Philippe, his eyes tearing up. ‘You didn’t even have the balls to tell me – you just let me get, get blindsided by this–’

‘Yes,’ Philippe snapped. ‘It hurts, doesn’t it? Allowing yourself to have feelings for someone, and just when things were starting to go well, finding them – what were your words? – wrapped around someone else. I _simply can’t imagine_ how _that_ feels.’

‘Philippe–’

‘No.’ He held up a hand, stopping the Chevalier in his tracks. ‘You’ve said your piece. Now it’s my turn. You don’t know the situation. You don’t know the stresses I’ve been under the past few weeks, the pressure I am _always_ under to – to conform, to behave like a good little boy, follow Louis’ orders like a well-trained dog – to never have the freedom to act however I want, to love whoever I want–’

‘You think I don’t know?’ The Chevalier said incredulously, shaking his hair. ‘You think I wasn’t listening when you had your little rant about Louis the night we went out? You think I don’t know how it feels to be controlled, to be denied your entire life because someone thinks something about you is wrong? You’re living in your bubble, my poor spoilt mignonette, your poor _woe-is-me-Philippe_ bubble where your feelings and your petty little troubles are the only things that matter to you – open your eyes!’

‘You’re doing it again!’ Philippe yelled, ‘Treating me exactly like Louis! Like an irritant – like a spoiled, petulant child! Look at yourself before laying those accusations at my door – you’re pathetic. You can’t accept my happiness with anyone but yourself – you are the spoilt child! You disgust me!’

The Chevalier looked as if he’d been struck. Immediately Philippe’s stomach filled with regret, heavy as stone, and his head ached with anger and the prickling threat of tears behind his eyes. The Chevalier stood stiffly and crossed to the door, ignoring Philippe as he stood up behind him, chasing him out of the room:

‘Lorraine – Lorraine, wait, I didn’t mean it–’

‘I saw your face, mignonette,’ Lorraine replied dully, his eyes brimming, ‘you said exactly what you meant. Now, if you don’t mind, I will take my leave.’

‘No. Stay. Please.’

The door shut behind the Chevalier as he left, and Philippe sank down beside it, his back against the wall and head in his hands, and cried.  
  


* * *

  
The entire dormitory was tiptoeing around Philippe’s door on eggshells. Sophie had tried coming in to ask if he was alright and had been sent from the room crying after he shouted and swore at her for her to leave. Jason, the computer sciences nerd, had tried to come in to have a word with him about it and received similar treatment, to the level where it became consensus to just leave him alone to his stewing and his anger. At least he no longer had to put up with the sling, although the bone was still tender and likely not yet healed; he had simply lost patience. He sat for hours at a time, staring blankly at the walls and revisiting the argument a thousand times in his head, before he could stand it no longer and picked up his phone, testing the buttons to see if it would turn on.

Miraculously the screen flickered to life, and although he got some of the smaller glass shards from the screen in his fingers, he managed to find the Chevalier’s number amongst his contacts. His thumb hovered for several seconds over the call button before he sighed and put the phone back on his bedside table, throwing a shoe at the light switch to turn it off and going to bed.

He was woken at 1:43am by his phone vibrating, a number he didn’t recognise flashing on the screen, and against his better judgment he picked up, hissing and wincing as he got another piece of glass in his thumb, and mumbled a sleepy ‘’Lo?’

‘Mignonette,’ came the slurred voice from the other end, thick with alcohol and tears, and Philippe’s heart gave a lurch.

‘Lorraine, where are you? You sound terrible.’ He ran a hand through his hair and started searching the room for his boxers, stumbling over the legs of his chair and cursing down the phone. ‘Tell me where you are. I’ll come and get you, you’re not safe to be out in that state–’

‘’M drunk. Somewhere you don’t know. And it doesn’t matter, because you don’t love me.’

‘Lorraine, don’t be melodramatic, it’s not one of your better qualities. Tell me where you are.’

‘Mignonette, please,’ he hiccuped, and it turned into a sob, ‘please. Don’t be disgusted by me.’

‘I’m not,’ Philippe said, his heart breaking, a lump in his throat. ‘Please, Chevalier, tell me where you are–’

‘I miss you,’ Lorraine sobbed, his voice breaking. ‘I m-miss you so te-erribly. Every d-day. Every m-oment I’m not w-with you, wh-when I don’t s-see you or h-hear you or t-touch you, it’s like d-dying. I m-made a mistake. I l-love you, mignonette. And – and the truth is, if you don’t l-love me… no-one l-loves me.’ He broke down in tears and Philippe had to swallow hard to fight his own. ‘I’m s-so sorry,’ the Chevalier gasped.

‘I’m coming,’ was all Philippe said before hanging up.  
  


* * *

  
He burst back into his bedroom with the Chevalier in his arms, their mouths fused together, hands scrabbling at wildly at clothing and Lorraine’s tears tracking both of their cheeks with salt as Philippe tumbled onto the bed, dragging the Chevalier on top of him, ignoring the pain of the Chevalier's weight landing on his injured shoulder. The man was still crying, his beautiful face dirty with tears, and he could still smell the alcohol on him, but the Chevalier wouldn’t let him stop. He pulled Philippe’s shirt off clumsily, jostling the broken collarbone and making Philippe wince, his mouth all over Philippe’s chest and pressing hurried, desperate kisses down towards his belt, shaking fingers already struggling to unbuckle it, and Philippe could only sigh and toss his head, caressing the long golden curls and arching his hips. The Chevalier yanked down his jeans, wrapped his mouth around Philippe’s cock – and promptly gagged and vomited over the bed, coughing.

Philippe didn’t even bat an eyelash. He rolled the Chevalier onto his side as he’d been taught in first aid lessons at school, and placed the bin by the bed in the region of Lorraine’s head. He was out cold, still in the majority of his clothes – although they were mostly unbuttoned – and Philippe gently eased the stained blanket out from beneath him before fetching his own dressing gown to cover him. He cleaned himself off as quickly and thoroughly as he could manage with his makeup wipes, deciding that that would have to do until morning, and laid down beside the Chevalier, throwing a protective arm over his waist and resting his head on the pillow, burying his nose in the warm golden curls spread out like a halo.

They awoke when the Chevalier flailed and nearly fell off the bed, Philippe instinctively tugging him back, and he blinked awake to see the Chevalier staring at him, wide-eyed and panicked.

‘Mignonette, I–’

‘Sshhh,’ Philippe murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead, ‘don’t fret. Everything’s alright.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't laugh at that fight, you're made of stronger stuff than me. I was in hysterics just writing it.

**Author's Note:**

> I know I set literally every university AU I ever write at this one university in England, but it's MY university so 'write what you know' and all that. Incidentally, it's a true story that two buildings on campus, Elliot and Rutherford, are exact mirror images of each other and that they were built by a guy who had previously pretty much only done prison blocks. They're frickin' labyrinths as well, because once you've got the navigation of one down, you're immediately confused by the other one. It once took me 35 minutes of seminar time to find the goddamn room in Elliot (and this was in my second year there). My seminar leader was not impressed.
> 
> The Hogwarts and Quidditch societies are a real thing there too. I played Quidditch with them a couple of times over the years I attended, and the Hogwarts society was my regular Wednesday night extracurricular. Yeah, everyone there was a bunch of nerds, but we all knew the lines to the movies so well that we used to have lip-sync competitions with certain characters. Ah, memories.
> 
> I needed a 'military'ish society for Philippe to join, and I figured reenactment probably wouldn't be his kind of thing. Plus, Chevy's a fencer in his tight gear and waving a sword around so Philippe at least has eye candy at the fencing society. (Can you tell I was a fencer at university as well? That was how I met my boyfriend, who also has long curly blondish hair and an uncontrollable 'party' atmosphere most of the time. I have a type.)


End file.
